


unconditionally

by hiensou



Category: Free!
Genre: M/M, birthday fic for makoto, harumakotokyo, have fun cringing at all the sap instead yall, it's been centuries since i wrote smth this... not lewd, the height of filth is the mention of lube wow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 04:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5233289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiensou/pseuds/hiensou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Haru…” he began, and Haruka curled his fists in the chilly autumn air, expecting a reprimand difficult to weave his way around without giving away what he wanted to save for the end of the evening before disclosing. “I can’t just ditch work…”<br/>“It’s your <i>birthday</i>.” Haruka insisted curtly.<br/>“You <i>know</i> what I’m doing here,” Makoto whined, “You know what I’m working for…”<br/>“Don’t worry about it.” the dark-haired man slowed down for a moment to collect Makoto’s hand in his. It wasn’t excessively cold, but he much preferred Makoto’s warm palm to that of the biting wind, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unconditionally

_You deserve a day that makes your heart flutter like you do mine—You deserve a thousand such days. I’ll give you what I can._

_Happy birthday. I wish we will be able to stay by each other’s side in this year to come, and in each one after that, as well._

 

* * *

 

 

”But it’s your birthday...”

Makoto sighed, his original disappointment welling up within him despite having been forced down multiple times since first finding out his shift would cover all of the seventeenth. It wouldn’t matter to him that much, honestly, if it weren’t for Haruka’s very obviously bothered, _very_ brilliantly blue eyes probing for relinquishment he ought to know Makoto couldn’t give.

“I know,” was as far as he could go, “I know it is, Haru.”

“Do they know?” Haruka crossed his arms, aura so vexed it appeared nearly flammable.

“I don’t think so,” Makoto shrugged. It was an office job—a cubicle job. And a temporary one at that, too. There was no reason for his co-workers or superiors to stamp his birth date to their memory when he was just another one of the company’s little elves.

Haruka looked displeased, but seemed to realise there wasn’t much more to get out of this discussion; Makoto’s birthday was in less than a week, and the man seemed more than fine with celebrating some other day. Haruka, on the other hand, was most definitely not. To him, birthdays had always been wholly overrated, but the fact that they meant a lot to Makoto was not lost on him. Neither was Makoto’s almost impeccable ability to force his own feelings aside for the comfort of others, even if the others were a corporation he barely knew the name of.

In truth, however, Haruka knew Makoto did not do this in order to please somebody else, but to make as much money as possible. As he had put it himself, he’d rather work late every night for a year than stay for two just so that he could come home at five and have his birthday cake.

The swim club at which Makoto had been working as a dearly loved coach had, much alike their old one in Iwatobi, been shut down and would face demolition within a near future. Haruka had offered they moved from their current area in Tokyo to another, more central one, so that Makoto could find another club, but Makoto insisted that they keep their house. He reasoned that Haruka was obviously fonder of these surroundings than of any pool he’d ever swum in before, and Makoto wouldn’t tear him from the swaying auburn of tall trees or the close-to-turquoise lake that lay picturesquely around the corner. Not when he could work toward opening the swim club anew. Not when he, too, was head over heels with their current home. Not when the children he had grown so fond of had no place to swim.

Haruka’s paintings sold well enough for them to afford the dainty house they had acquired after sharing walls with strangers for too long during university, but not well enough for him to help out much with the resurrection of the club, more than the occasional sum. Makoto’s office job wasn’t the most extravagant, but it paid enough for him to have a considerable amount in his savings, that might soon be enough to serve as a kick-starter for the club’s rebirth, if anything. Whether or not it would be that easy to keep it alive was a different question, but he’d be damned if he did not do whatever petite thing he could to help.

Still, Haruka wished he could have at _least_ been allowed this one day off. More so than suspecting Makoto’s hidden dismay in being stuck in his little cubicle when he could be celebrating with his boyfriend instead, Haruka was aching to display his appreciation for Makoto. To show that while words of his deep gratitude rarely rolled off his tongue with smoothness, actions and favours and _celebrations_ was something else entirely. He secretly hoped Makoto’s boss would forget his phone at home that day, or find a hair in his food, or something else mood-wrecking but essentially harmless that would serve as his karma.

He decided then that Makoto being stuck at work on his own birthday was simply too unthinkable, and he would do whatever he could to raise enough money within the seven days that lay ahead of him, to make Makoto’s dream come true. What kind of boyfriend—or _best friend_ would he be if he did not even try?

Waking up before Makoto on Wednesday, the eleventh, Haruka rummaged through the entirety of their house, desperate but quiet as a mouse. He cursed himself under his breath for dismissing the idea given by Makoto to purchase a pinboard for whatever notes and reminders they wanted to keep. Now, as he was scrambling through cupboards and shelves, stuffing his arms beneath the sofa, turning the floors upside down, almost, in search of a small business card he once had, he thought the pinboard an admittedly genius suggestion.

Truth be told, Haruka probably wouldn’t have put the card on the board, anyway; he had received it from one of his customers who was particularly fond of his art, and not to mention unfathomably wealthy. He had offered Haruka a way to open up his own art exhibition, wanting to put his name on the map as an outstanding new painter, but Haruka had respectfully turned him down. His reasoning was that fame never interested him, which was why he preferred selling his works for private use rather than for exhibitions, or what might eventually even be a museum. The man—whose name Haruka had not bothered to remember—had nodded with puckered lips, called him “very humble” and handed Haruka his business card in case he changed his mind.

Haruka hadn’t, really, because fame brought a bitter taste to his mouth, but did not believe one exhibition could do much harm—and if it did, it might be worth it for Makoto’s sake. Somehow, it wasn’t just about his birthday anymore.

When the memory of seeing the corner of a pale yellow little card in one of the drawers of his night stand crept behind his eyelids, his chest blossomed with airy hopefulness, and the possibility of giving Makoto what he had worked so hard for for almost a year now set Haruka off in a careful sprint back to their bedroom.

With much trepidation, as Makoto was still snoring against his pillow like an over-grown child, Haruka tip-toed into the room and pulled the cabinet open. Inside was a stack of papers he didn’t even know the contents of, a wristwatch given to him by his father which he rarely used, some other knick-knacks denied the light of day for most of the time, and, indeed, beneath a bottle of raspberry-flavoured lubrication (probably the most used item in the entire drawer), a yellow card was peeking out.

Haruka fought back the urge to groan in relief as he pulled the card out and very much recognised Hashira Daisuke as the man with wrinkly eyes, smoothed-back hair and a wallet too big for his pockets.

Pattering out of the room and onto the back yard, Haruka fished his cell phone out and dialled the number with a mild tremble to his digits. Not only did he rather dislike making phone calls—especially to people he did not know well—but the fear of the offer no longer standing, or not providing enough money, twisted his gut with nervousness. He began stepping from side to side impatiently as the signals went out, one after one, piling on top of each other like invisible, nasty reminders of Haruka’s all too real probability of failing Makoto.

“Hashira Daisuke,” came a voice on the other end, finally, and Haruka audibly breathed out air his lungs had been burning around, “Hello…?”

“Hello, it’s, um, Nanase Haruka, the—”

“Nanase-san!” Hashira interrupted him ebulliently, “What an honour to have you call me up, and so early in the morning! It must be urgent, no?”

Haruka’s hand was gripping the phone so tautly his fingers were beginning to feel stuck that way. “About that exhibition…”

“Changed your mind, did you? I’m glad to hear it!” the man interrupted once more, and Haruka was beginning to feel a tad irritated, even though Hashira’s enthusiasm was a positive thing.

“Yeah.”

“Want to be a huge star, huh?”

“No.”

Hashira guffawed in amusement, and Haruka could hear the creaking of a chair in the distant surroundings of his potential saviour. “Well,” said the man, clearing his throat and assuming a more serious tone to his words, “I would most definitely want to help you out. I’m rooting for you, kiddo, however I believe it would be best if we met up to discuss the—”

“How much do you think I’ll make?” Haruka dared cut him off with, wanting to know this was at all worth the trouble before he proceeded. Hashira laughed again, but in a more hushed, almost confused sounding fashion.

“That’s hard to say, kid. It all depends on who comes—which is partially affected by our choice of time and place. And, of course, the quality of the paintings you choose to display. Or we. You see, I don’t want to insult you, but since I am a professional in the art business…”

“That’s fine,” Haruka nodded frenetically, “You can choose whichever ones you like. I’ll bring them over. I can make new ones as well. So how much…?”

“You seem eager,” Hashira observed inquiringly, “Something special in mind?”

Haruka nodded again, breathing out heavily. “Yeah.”

* * *

 

He met up with Hashira that same day, wanting to leave after Makoto had gone off to work and return before the latter did. The planning of the exhibition took a lot longer than he expected, however, as Hashira demanded he was let in on why Haruka was in such a hurry to establish the event, and they ended up wanting to get as much done as possible before the day was over. Therefore, Haruka received a text at around half past eight, Makoto wanting to know if he was out. Haruka despised having to lie, especially over something like this, which would either make Makoto boundlessly happy, or upset, him wanting to achieve his goal by himself. Haruka told him he was swimming in the local indoor pool, though, and prayed Makoto would not go to visit him there.

“I absolutely love these ones of the mountains, are they drawn from life?”

Haruka nodded at Hashira’s question. “Iwatobi.”

“Ah right, that sea-side village, no? Fine place, I’ve heard,” the man nodded contentedly at the painting in his hands, lowering it to rest against the wall. “I’m afraid these are… too few, however. I work at the National City Museum of Arts’ Department of Transitory Exhibitions, as you know,” he paused to give a most _humble_ chuckle, cocking his head to the side a bit, “and it’s a rather large hall. With grand showcases. Grand for being upcoming artists, that is. Anyway, I’ll probably need you to at least centuplicate this amount, I’m afraid.”

Haruka’s mouth fell slightly ajar in appalment, “One hundred… In a week?”

Hashira’s eyebrows drew together sympathetically, and his shoulders bunched up. He offered no verbal consolation or affirmation, however, and Haruka bit his lip thoughtfully.

There was a moment of silence in between them, which Haruka spent wracking his mind for other possible ways around his dilemma. Was there something else he could sell? Something simpler he could create? What motifs would he even use for a hundred paintings?

Heart sunken to his toes, Haruka opened his mouth to decline any further development of their plans, and yet the words tumbling out from between his lips were, “Do you want a specific theme?”

Hashira stroked his chin and smiled at the younger man.

* * *

 

“Don’t move.”

“Sorry, Haru,” Makoto said quietly, lying on his stomach with his arms beneath his head, a somewhat heavy Haruka sitting on his thighs with a canvas in hand.

Haruka had promised it would be a quick procedure, and he was truly a man of his word. He had been positioned behind Makoto for no longer than ten minutes, but was already beginning to feel satisfied with his work. He worked with a large brush, overlapping many different hues of similar colours that created an interesting layout, characterised by a certain chaos sans sloppiness.

Makoto’s back was depicted in rich, warm oranges and reds on the canvas, with deep violet shadowing its features. Haruka found that if you let your eyes fleet across it only briefly, it could be mistaken for a sunset. It felt like Hashira’s taste, for some reason.

It didn’t take him more than forty minutes, in the end, and Makoto was very impressed by it. Next up, Haruka followed a stray cat around, trying to get it to sit still while he illustrated it in unnatural blues, which ended up taking a little over an hour. After that, he gave up for the night, but got up early on Thursday to continue his mission.

A tree, a pile of leaves, a puddle, two puddles, the sky, a street. Any more and his wrist would have been sprained, surely. He sent photos of his works to Hashira, who called him up immediately to gush about the eccentricity of his new style. Haruka felt an unpleasant sensation crawling over his skin, however, knowing how far eight was from a hundred.

While Makoto was still at work that day, Haruka took the subway into town himself and began snapping pictures of whatever he found interesting enough to recreate with his brushes. And later, once Makoto had fallen asleep, Haruka got up to sketch these objects with charcoal crayons, achieving considerably quicker results (and dirtier hands.)

 By the time Saturday came around, Haruka had lost count of how many new pieces he had made, as well as the amount of hours he had actually spent on them. Hashira liked each and every one of them, fortunately, but Haruka still felt like just as much of a lost cause as he had before.

By then, the venue was appointed and advertisement for the upcoming exhibition had been starting to circulate. Haruka was afraid it would reach Makoto, but the man often left home early and worked until late, probably too tired during both travels to actually read any flyers or posters. His path did not pass the place of the exhibition, anyway, so Haruka assumed he’d be safe.

* * *

 

“Just don’t overwork yourself, dear,” his mother said to him on the phone as the subject had somehow lured his plans out of him, although he rarely updated his parents on his life.

“I won’t,” came his lackluster reply.

His parents were currently living back in Iwatobi, but Haruka had gathered it was temporary, as much as they loved it there. “How many did you say you had? Around thirty? Honestly… You’ll either not make it over fifty or strain yourself…”

“I’ll make it,” Haruka swallowed, unsure even as his tone was firm, “Somehow.”

“Haruka, sweetheart,” his mother sighed, “You know Makoto-kun wouldn’t like you doing this for him.”

Haruka didn’t answer. He knew she was right in that Makoto would never like the idea of Haruka bending himself out of shape for his sake, but he also felt sour that his mother—who had barely been part of their life since they were small—would be the one to reprimand him.

“Why don’t you just bring the paintings you have here?”

Haruka paused. And waited. And waited some more. “I…” he began eventually, voice a mere hush and brows knit close together, “I’ve still got paintings in Iwatobi?”

His mother laughed lightly on the other end. “Oh yes, quite a few, too. Some are old, though, but there’s definitely more than a few dozens.”

Haruka slowly raised his palm to his forehead, flooded with faint memories of paintings and drawings he had done during middle and high school, only to be discarded into his closet for years to come. Memories of docks,  twin siblings, stormy skies and orange-yellow t-shirts, all printed onto canvases and sketch books by his own hand. _Definitely more than a few dozens…_

“Did you say you were coming to Tokyo on Monday?”

“Yes, for my business trip. But what—”

“Could you bring them?”

His mother let a few beats pass in silence, before letting out a noise of content. “No problem, dear.”

* * *

 

Haruka spent the next few days painting and drawing as much as he could. Normally, the mere concept of creating so many pieces a day—on demand, nonetheless—would tear him apart with stress, but there was something wholly different in this way of working, this time around. He could see his own skill developing at a pace so rapid it erased any substantial anxiety within him, and knowing that he was doing it, in a _way_ , on his own accord, for _Makoto_ , certainly played a part in easing his nerves.

When his mother arrived the day before the exhibition and Makoto’s birthday, any weight he had had on his shoulders before instantly dispersed like emptied rain clouds.

While a lot of his old work wasn’t—in his opinion—of considerable enough quality to put on a wall for art lovers and professionals to evaluate, they were easy enough for him to work with, creating yet another new style he hadn’t thought to try before. Some of his late high school creations he deemed good enough, though, and sent them to Hashira the way they were.

“Well, we’re not over a hundred,” the older man said as Haruka spoke to him on the phone, the night before the seventeenth, “but we’re close enough, I suppose. I’d say, for you, I think quality might make up for quantity.”

“I have one final piece I want to finish, though.”

“Oh?” Hashira sounded intrigued, “Will it be your blockbuster?”

Haruka smiled at the debatably annoying chuckles resounding from the receiver, unable to be neither vexed nor worried about the ordeal. He was worn out, undoubtedly, but too jumbled with anticipation to actually feel tired. Thus, instead of catching z’s within Makoto’s arms as the latter had hoped for, he left the man pouting like an infant and ambiguously excused himself to spend the late night painting (“As if you haven’t done a ton of that this week already… What if you get arthritis in your hand!”)

…

The metronome rhythm of their living room clock and the lulling atmosphere of the dozing-off outskirts of Tokyo created a perfectly serene ambiance for Haruka to paint in.

He had lit up the fireplace, and was standing with his easel in the middle of their dim-lit living room, painting from memory as he brought to life his final exhibition work; a painting of his usual style, with a realistic yet vibrant colour scheme, authentic proportions and a vast abundance of details.

The canvas was larger than any of his earlier pieces, and it took him until past four in the morning to finish it. Normally, he would have wanted to use oil colours, but knew that it would not have time to dry if he did. Nevertheless, he felt satisfied with the outcome, and stood back to regard his illustration of a frozen, turquoise lake, edges bleeding into an autumn-red floor with tree roots of dark bark adorning it. The trees on the far side of the solidified water wore radiant crowns which reached high into the sky, like a burning backdrop to the picture’s main motif, which was located on the middle of the ice. A skating couple, the figures of which were close to indecipherable at the far distance, but still stole your focus, somehow.

One of the persons on the canvas was taller than the other, and seemed to have trouble standing up straight on their skates. The other person held a secure clasp of their arms, however, preventing them from falling.

Rust-dyed leaves danced around them, offering specks of warmth in the otherwise chilly aura of the art piece.

Haruka was often one of humble nature, but felt an unfamiliar, immense pride over his creation. Perhaps it was more so the emotions he had laced into it than what reaction it evoked in him itself, though, but either way, he was still biting his lip trying not to grin as he dove beneath the sheets at 4:35 A.M. that night, curling up close to Makoto from behind and pressing himself against the man’s warm back.

Glancing out the window into the inky space of night, a minute streak of light ran across the mighty stretch of sky. Haruka watched the star fade into visual oblivion, before closing his eyes and making a little wish.

* * *

 

“It seems to be going exceptionally well,” a familiar voice whispered to Haruka, as he watched the surprising mass of people lingering about his paintings.

Haruka nodded without looking at Hashira, the refreshing white of the walls stinging his tired eyes a bit. It seemed anticipation only worked as an energy boost for so long.

“We’ve sold a large number in room number three already, and the auction for the works in number two is just about to start.”

“Will it be enough?” Haruka asked, inquiring about the swim club’s kick-starter in a rather obscure manner. Hashira picked up on his wondering immediately, though.

“It’s not, yet,” he said, tone clearly conveying the obviousness of his reply, “But I’m sure it will be once it’s all done. Assuming they all get sold, that is. But I quite believe they will.”

Haruka nodded once with an understanding “hm.” He felt restless, wanting it to be over as soon as possible so that he could go and fetch Makoto from work. Originally, he hadn’t wanted him to leave at all in the morning, but since the exhibition was early on the same day, he’d had to roll with it.

The hours dragged by him sadistically slowly, and it was afternoon by the time the last few people began seeing themselves out, and Haruka could finally start breathing again.

All of his paintings still hung on the walls, as Hashira had explained to him that they would stay up for a couple of days for people to come by and look at them for a lower price, but not be able to bid on them, and then they’d be sent out to their respective new owners. Haruka hadn’t actually understood why this was important for him to know; he wasn’t in the least interested in doing this ever again, were he to be honest.

When the last person had finally left, he walked around the three small halls himself to have a final look. At the end of room three hung his latest painting, around which the thickest crowd of onlookers had been. He regarded it with yet another ounce of pride, or more so felicity, as he thought forward to his meeting with Makoto.

_It’s too bad the lake hasn’t frozen yet…_

“Nanase-kun!” came the echo of Hashira’s spirited voice from the entrance of the hall. Haruka turned to him, and Hashira wore a grin brimming of more satisfaction than could probably fit in all of Haruka’s body combined. “We’re closing for today. Excellent job. I’m glad you could be here for it; it really helps for new artists to show themselves unassuming by being present at their first showcase. And I do believe some of the older ladies spent more time ogling you than your work!” he let out another one of his unabashed laughs, patting Haruka gently on the shoulder. “I’ll get back to you about the buyers and the total sum later. I assume you want to leave as soon as possible.”

“I’d like to know the result right away, if that’s okay,” he stated with poorly restrained fervour, the phone number to the city’s building commission scribbled on a note that seemed to burn his thigh urgently from inside his pocket. “I have a call to make.”

* * *

 

Haruka felt as if he were lost in a maze, trying to navigate between the many cubicles in the building. He had been to visit Makoto at work briefly before, and had a hazy memory of _Floor 2, Row 7_ , but those four words did not do much for his disorientation.

Then, as if by fate, a man exited his cubicle wearing very much the same outfit Haruka had seen Makoto leave the house in, earlier this morning. He also had a head donned with very much the same hair, albeit tousled from an evidently large quantity of times combed back by frustrated fingers.

Haruka froze immediately, and was almost run into by Makoto, whose nose was buried in a few sheets of paper. The brunet stopped shortly before him, excused himself, made to round him within the narrow corridor between the cubicles, and then halted again once he realised whom he had seen. Haruka turned with an amused tug at his lips as Makoto’s greens widened, and before he could utter his puzzlement, Haruka lifted a finger to his lips and hushed him.

“You’re getting out early today,” said Haruka, circling his lean fingers around Makoto’s bicep and regarding his reaction with an impossible cocktail of devilry and benevolence in his demeanour.

“I’m—?”

“You might want to leave those, though,” continued the shorter man, a slight incline of his head toward the documents Makoto had forgotten he was holding.

“Tho—Oh!” his eyes flickered down and up again, “Haru, what…”

“Don’t dawdle,” Haruka pushed the other man forward by his arm, “We’ve only got eight hours until it’s the eighteenth.”

“The…”

“And stop mumbling.”

He gave Makoto one final encouragement, pressing his palm flat against his upper arm and gesturing forward with the other. Despite feeling like a large question mark in a suit, Makoto made his legs work him toward his boss’ office to dispose of the documents he had brought with him.

As Makoto made his way away from him, Haruka scurried over to the cubicle he had seen his boyfriend exit from, set on grabbing Makoto’s things for him so as to make a quicker escape.

On the desk lay a few chocolate bar wrappings, at which he couldn’t help but roll his eyes and grab for to throw in the bin by the cubicle’s opening. Although, as he turned around with the colourful paper crinkling in his fist, he was met by a stern, unfamiliar stare and a partially bald head all but glistening above it. By the authoritarian stance and the very expensive-looking suit, Haruka assumed this ought to be Makoto’s superior.

“And who might you be?” asked the man.

Haruka blinked. “I’m, uh…” For a brief second his mind short-circuited, but the crinkling noise whispered to him a solution from within his palm: “I’m the new cleaner.”

A thick brow was quirked above that disapproving gaze. “You aren’t wearing the proper… attire.”

Haruka felt shivers all but clawing at his spine from how the dour man spoke. “I’m a special cleaner. Sir. I was upgraded.”

“From… Regular cleaner, to?”

“Special cleaner.” Haruka made a slow show of releasing the candy wrappings into the trash can. “We get to choose our clothes ourselves… and we get an extra fruit in the cafeteria.”

The man breathed through his nostrils like a beast ready to kill. Haruka assumed he wasn’t quite so convinced.

“Get.” the man gritted through his teeth, “Out.”

Haruka narrowed his eyes defensively for a second, before scooping Makoto’s things into his arms and slinking past the older man. “Yes, Mr…”

The man made no move to fill in with his name.

Haruka cleared his throat. “Mr. Boss. Excuse me.”

He could feel that predatory observation drilling into his back on his way out, and as he met with Makoto after turning left, he once again grabbed the brunet by the arm and pulled him down below the edge of the cubicle walls.

“Is that my jacket?” was all Makoto managed, but Haruka hushed him and quickly lead them out of the office.

Once outside, he handed Makoto’s things back to him and hurriedly headed toward the subway. Makoto sighed behind him, but followed… with much hesitation.

“Haru…” he began, and Haruka curled his fists in the chilly autumn air, expecting a reprimand difficult to weave his way around without giving away what he wanted to save for the end of the evening before disclosing. “I can’t just ditch work…”

“It’s your _birthday_.” Haruka insisted curtly.

“You _know_ what I’m doing here,” Makoto whined, “You know what I’m working for…”

“Don’t worry about it.” the dark-haired man slowed down for a moment to collect Makoto’s hand in his. It wasn’t excessively cold, but he much preferred Makoto’s warm palm to that of the biting wind, anyway.

“You can be so careless sometimes, Haru.”

“I’m serious,” he raised his voice, despite not being upset. Makoto’s reaction was to be expected, and Haruka’s stomach was tumbling with too much gleeful nervousness to harbour any exasperation. “You don’t have to worry about that right now.”

Makoto was silent, fingertips curling against the back of Haruka’s hand sourly. He never retracted his hand, though.

He was empty of words on the subway as well, even though Haruka was sure the other was curious about where they were going. This was not the direction home, so by now he must have had figured out something out of the ordinary was up. Haruka tapped his foot restlessly against the floor of the car, ready to get to celebrate Makoto the way he wanted to, just the two of them.

They got off three stops later, and Haruka was adamant on holding Makoto’s hand as he pulled him along toward their destination, ignoring the pouty look on Makoto’s face. Just as good as Makoto was at faking his emotions when he wanted to, Haruka was at knowing that that bottom lip was a little too pushed out to not be an attempt at concealing anticipation.

When they neared the doors to the city’s indoor ice-skating rink, Makoto finally spoke.

“We’re going ice-skating…?”

Haruka wordlessly turned his head and gave an unguarded smile, and Makoto’s ears flushed pink from the sight.

Haruka paid for their rented skates and pulled Makoto along with him by the hand, again, into the skating hall. The giant expanse of ice was mostly empty, save for three teenage girls and a child with their father. Makoto was still quiet as they sat on a bench to put on their skates, but his face had lit up with something unabashedly inquisitive and excited rather than the indignant shadow that lay over his features earlier. Haruka allowed another soft smile to flourish on his own face, and it remained as he stepped onto the ice and grasped both of Makoto’s hands to steady him.

“You know I’m no good at this…” Makoto said, voice and knees equally wobbly.

“Don’t tense up,” Haruka instructed, and slid closer to him so as to not have him stretch his arms. Makoto’s eyes left their feet to silently plead for help, but were rendered captivated and subsequently more relaxed than earlier, when he spotted the happy beam of Haruka’s face. “Since most people are at work or at school, we’ll have it… mostly to ourselves.”

Makoto grinned joyfully, breathing out through his nose. “You planned this, huh?”

“Of course I’d plan _something_ ,” he dropped his smile to give Makoto a taste of his more common cockiness, and Makoto leaned forward to headbutt Haruka’s forehead softly.

“You didn’t have to, you know. I mean, you _shouldn’t_ have, I’ve—”

He was quickly silent once again, a warm mouth keenly pressing against his own. Makoto sighed and smiled into the kiss, but went rigid as Haruka began to move them backward. Once their lips parted, Makoto was fast to glare down at his own feet as if threatening them from toppling over, but Haruka just kept gliding himself backward, taking his boyfriend with him.

They kept close to the rink, and Makoto couldn’t help but let out the occasional yelp or sheepish laughter as he trembled himself forward. Haruka watched with amused and hopeful eyes, seeing as Makoto became somewhat more comfortable for each passing minute. They did not share any further words for a while, just a breathy little laugh every now and then, and Haruka eventually decided to pick up the pace, dragging Makoto along the ice at a calm but slightly challenging—for the brunet, that was—speed. Once Makoto seemed to get the hang of that, Haruka sped up even more, and eventually he was careening them along the far width of the ice, Makoto looking as if he couldn’t decide if he was having the most fun he had ever had in his life, or was on his death bed.

“Ha-Haru! Slow down a bit—”

Haruka stretched their arms out, bringing them farther away from each other.

“Haru!” Makoto leaned forward a bit, behind perched into the air rather ungracefully. Haruka snorted loudly, luring an uncontrollable laugh from the other. “Seriously!”

“Next up,” Haruka said lowly, with a promising suspense to his words as he bent his arms again, and steered them into the centre of the ice, which was now completely empty of other people, “Is Tachibana’s famous Killing Whale Spirals, which has won him many medals in the ice-skating Olympics and a nomination for the most graceful man on ice in all of Japan.”

“ _Don’t you dare!_ ”

Stretching his arms to their full length again, Haruka curved his posture, sending them into a small, rapid circle, followed by another, and another, and a few more, until Makoto’s yelp turned into yet another fit of laughter. Eventually, Haruka couldn’t hold it in anymore, either, and turned his head toward his shoulder to laugh out loud, slowing them down to avoid any heart attacks or visits from the breakfast Makoto had had that morning.

Once they turned to slide into a simple line again, Makoto tripped forward and saved himself, crying out and grabbing for Haruka’s upper arms as soon as he was on his feet once more. Haruka snaked his arms around the other’s middle, face against Makoto’s clad collarbone in mild shyness as his body shook with more laughter. The taller of the two sighed and chuckled, wrapping his arms securely around Haruka.

“Thank you for my birthday present: dying at an early age.”

Haruka snuck his hands up below Makoto’s jacket. “You’re welcome.”

“Is this what you meant by me not having to worry about work? Because you were going to kill me anyway?”

“Shut up, you’re still alive.” Haruka bumped his nose against the brunet’s clavicle in an attempt to admonish him. He then pulled back, glancing up at the high ceiling above them. “What time is it?”

Makoto raised his arm to regard his wrist watch, replying, “It’s almost five.”

“Then,” Haruka looked down again, eyes finding Makoto’s in a gentle gaze, “Happy birthday, Makoto.”

Makoto blinked at him quizzically, before smiling amicably. He opened his mouth to reply with his gratitude, but as the clock struck five, the light in the room dimmed and a cluster of colours—which they soon made out to be confetti—exploded above and around them, accompanied by a cheery trumpet tune that echoed in the empty hall. They both looked down as the ice flushed a jolly shade of red, gigantic, white hiragana spelling out “happy birthday!” across the ice, which would have been close to unreadable from their close proximity, had the occasion not made it a rather easy guess.

Makoto squeezed Haruka’s hand, which he did not remember taking, and then searched his face for some sort of explanation, which—despite the message behind the surprise being rather evident—was bound to come.

Haruka’s eyes were still fixed on the slippery floor beneath them, however, and his cheeks nearly blended with the object of his stare. “That might be the lamest thing I’ve ever given you,” he muttered with a certain apathy to his voice, and Makoto giggled with another squeeze to his hand. This made Haruka look up, finally, and the dark hue of his cheeks was so charming Makoto felt like kissing him all over, but Haruka prevented it by continuing: “They told me there were ‘celebration arrangements’ for birthdays, hockey victories and proposals and… I thought it might be your thing.” He let out a sheepish sigh and stared soullessly ahead. “It was _not_ at all _my_ thing.”

Makoto’s chest felt tight, his body warm, and his head giddy. He released Haruka’s hand and arm to cup his jaw line, slumping forward to kiss his cheek profoundly. The dark-haired man’s fingers pressed into Makoto’s sides, thumbs caressing up and down the hem of his pants coyly. “Anything could be my thing coming from Haru, I think.”

Haruka swallowed thickly and let his palms glide to the small of Makoto’s back.

“I’ll keep that in mind for future reference.”

Makoto bit his cheeks to try to restrict his grin, summery green eyes fleeting from their lock with Haruka’s blues to his narrow lips. At that noiseless cue, Haruka did the same, lowering his focus and readily meeting the mouth that came into contact with his. _God_ , how he loved that mouth.

As they were now standing still in the middle of the rink, Haruka began to slowly move them forward again whilst they kissed. Makoto made a little sound against Haruka, probably chiding him for dissipating Makoto’s calm, but Haruka took it as a moan, and slipped his tongue between the other’s lips instead. Makoto released a grunt of frustration, but couldn’t bring himself to stop Haruka from kissing him. He had always been bad at that.

Haruka turned them in a small circle and stopped, and Makoto could relax again. He pulled back to peck the tip of Haruka’s nose and shake his head incredulously, before resuming his blissful sighing and licking at the other’s mouth.

Haruka was silently bewildered when his boyfriend broke them apart by laughing, all of a sudden.

“What?” Haruka demanded, somewhat offended. Makoto looked down and up again, eyebrows tilted.

“I just realised I’m still wearing a suit.”

Now it was Haruka’s turn to shake his head, scoffing at his boyfriend. “Well, it’s a national holiday, why wouldn’t you be wearing a suit?”

Makoto made an ambiguous squealing noise and shielded his scarlet face with their intertwined hands.

* * *

 

“It’s beautiful… How come I’ve never seen this part of the lake before?”

“You don’t walk past it on the usual way home, I guess.”

“Ah, but you knew about it?”

Haruka nodded.

“It was yours, huh?”

He looked at Makoto questioningly.

“I mean this place, it was your own, so you never told anyone about it.”

Haruka rolled a shoulder stiffly, realising that was probably it, although he had never thought of it that way himself.

“I’m right, huh?” Makoto made a faint laugh.

They were walking along planks that lay on the ground like a makeshift road, a slope blanketed by tangelo coloured leaves and trees from which the leaves had descended to their left; the incomprehensibly teal body of water on their right. Haruka loved this lake and often swam in it during summer. This particular path leading along it toward the back of their house was a little longer than the main road, but the tranquillity exuded into one’s soul from the scenery made it worthwhile. He tried not to take this route too often, afraid he would grow used to the sight; only when art-block or anxiety drove into him, tying knots in his back and abusing his rest, would he come here. Sometimes, he did not even need to slip into the water to feel at ease again. There was an incontestable beauty to these surroundings, which was absolutely enough.

“I wanted to show you, though…” Haruka began quietly, scratching the side of his nose somewhat awkwardly. Makoto took his other hand, and they stopped to watch the smooth flow of the water below. “You’re the only one I’d let in on personal things… like this….”

“I’m honoured,” said Makoto, voice verging on a whisper. He smiled at Haruka with frivolity, but the latter kept his eyes forward and shook his head as Makoto thanked him.

“I should be saying that,” he murmured, lifting Makoto’s hands to fiddle with those long, tan fingers. He smoothed his own fingerprints over Makoto’s skin, leaving adoration in the wake of his feathery touch, and admission to his soul, somehow. “There’s a reason I let you in, you know. So… Thank _you_.”

“Well…” Makoto shrugged, and curled his hand around one of the ones currently assessing it. “That kind of goes without saying.”

“Except it doesn’t,” Haruka retorted softly, “So don’t brush it off. Y-You deserve to hear it, and I…” his voice fell to an even lower volume, and his body moved closer to Makoto’s, as if seeking soothing and protection—ironically, by the same person he needed it _from_. “I try really hard to say it, so don’t brush it off…”

Makoto regarded him without words for a few beats, before putting his lips between his teeth and having his cheeks colour as he stepped from Haruka’s side to take up his vision in front instead, and landed a long kiss to his jaw line. “Okay,” he said as he pulled back, staying close to the other’s face. “You’re welcome, then. But I do enjoy, well, creating that reason.”

“So sappy…” Haruka muttered, but lifted his arms around Makoto’s neck nonetheless. Hugging him tight as the brunet laughed, Haruka pressed his mouth to Makoto’s neck, to his cheek, to his temple…

“Love you, too, Haru,” Makoto chuckled with a velvety quality to his voice, accepting the kisses to his face, and the final, much more thorough and yearning ones to his lips.

As lovely as it was, having Makoto here to kiss instead of him being at work, Haruka could feel his own lips begin to chap slightly, and sighed through the last few pecks spread upon Makoto’s kiss-swollen mouth. Winter seemed to be coming early this year, and Haruka looked forward to summer, when he could take Makoto swimming here without hearing complaints about catching the flu.

Once Haruka had let the little dance between their lips—bordering on indecent, truthfully—end, he dragged his hands through the hair behind Makoto’s ears, halting them when rested at the latter’s chilled, crimson face and holding it delicately.

Makoto was turning twenty-five today. Even though Haruka was older by five months, the thought was oddly thrilling.

“Let’s go home,” Haruka breathed, “I still have a few things for you.”

* * *

 

Makoto wore an unrestrained stretch of lips as he sat with his hands over his eyes, waiting for whatever Haruka was preparing. The brunet was currently seated in their sofa, opposite of which flames crackled and licked the insides of the brick fireplace.

The light from outside was taking on a gloomier form as the day bled into late evening. The open fire warmed Makoto’s sock-clad feet, however, and the light trail that hung above the couch, sneaking around the wooden beams reaching from the wall to the ceiling, provided a cozy kind of light to the room.

On the coffee table next to him, their pumpkins carved at Halloween (or a week later, to be precise, as Makoto had had to work on _that_ holiday as well) still rested, though he reckoned by their sunken shape visible from the peek holes between his fingers, that they ought to be disposed of rather soon. Haruka had carved a fish of magnificent detail, and Makoto had made himself, Haruka, Ren and Ran. Or more so, stick figures that were supposed to represent them. Ran was a bit more handsome than the others, though, as the twins had actually been here for the carving, and she had insisted her brother let her save her own image.

Makoto felt a tugging desire to sneak a peek of Haruka as the latter set down something on the table, but it sounded a lot like cups, and so the temptation was not so strong he failed to suppress it. Still, he called out, “Can I open my eyes now?”

“Not yet,” came the monotone reply, and Haruka retreated into their kitchen for yet another few moments.

Makoto wiggled his toes, the fabric of the knitted socks pleasantly soft and warm over his cold feet. Taking a deep breath, he could smell chocolate and marshmallows, and made a contented little huff at the realisation of what was in the cups.

“Okay…” Haruka’s voice entered the room tentatively, footsteps subdued by his own pair of fuzzy socks. “You can look now.”

Makoto removed his hands, blinking at the fire a few times to let his eyes adjust, before shifting them to the right as Haruka sat down carefully beside him. In his hands was a small, round cake of mint green colour, with a large, intricately shaped bow on top (which, judging by the deep brown colour was most likely chocolate,) a bottom margin in the same colour, and dark silhouettes of kittens sitting or jumping along the side of the pastry.

Makoto’s jaw went slack, and as Haruka put it down on the table next to what was indeed hot chocolate, _packed_ with marshmallows, Makoto could see the cutesy stub of a candle burning atop Haruka’s culinary masterpiece, as well as the date and Makoto’s name written in white icing.

At a loss for words, Makoto averted his planet-sized eyes to Haruka, on whose features another smile was blossoming. Had Makoto not been completely enthralled by the cake, he might have taken the opportunity to note how much his boyfriend was smiling lately. (Those precious smiles had increased more and more since the last year of high school, truth be told, but today he felt extra blessed.)

“I baked it myself,” Haruka shrugged, somehow managing to keep his humble, nearly self-deprecating ambiance despite the proud curve of his mouth. “I’ve been feeling pretty artsy lately, so I thought I’d use it for your birthday.”

Somehow, Makoto had a feeling there was more to Haruka’s words than what was directly conveyed, but he did not comment on it.

“Haru, I…” he began, head shaking with incredulity, “It’s so amazing… how could I possibly cut it up?”

Haruka let out a huff of amusement. “If you don’t then I will.”

“Aw…” Chartreuse eyes darted back to the pastry waiting on the table. “Well, in any case, thank you so much,” Makoto raised his hands to his own cheeks, mimicking a pose of unbearable wonderment, “It’s so, so beautiful. I don’t get how you do it.”

Haruka simply shrugged again.

“Also, you’re so going to give me a cavity.”

The black-haired man scooted closer on the sofa, crossing Makoto’s thigh with a leg of his own and locking their arms together.

“But I’m sure to have a few already, what with how sweet Haru is, huh?”

Said person bonked his forehead sulkily against Makoto’s shoulder, but did not accomplish much else but a kiss to the top of his head with the gesture.

“Make a wish, you idiot.”

Sucking in a breath, Makoto leaned closer to the cake and held the air in his lungs for a few seconds. He closed his eyes, cupping the knee slung over his own as he made his wish, and blew out the single candle with ease. He smiled as he sat back again, greens fluttering open to assess the cake for a while longer. He then reached out, spinning it to find cats running across the entire side of it, and sat back again. “It’s really unbelievable. You haven’t even taken a course or anything.”

“Stop it with the praise.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Makoto laughed, turning his head to look down at the other, who seemed sleepy as he leaned his cheek against Makoto’s upper arm. Unable to constrain himself as Haruka had ordered him to, he gathered the latter’s hands in his own and kissed the knuckles gingerly. “I just love these hands so much.”

He received a fiery frown—matching not only the flames in the fireplace but the hue of the dark-haired man’s face as well—before being pushed down onto the couch by the shoulders. Makoto made a faint “oomf” sound before cracking up in giggles that Haruka thought he should have gotten used to after twenty-five years, but which still birthed butterflies in his belly. “And I—” Haruka began, voice louder than he himself expected it to be, “And I just love this man so much.”

Makoto’s laughter died out quicker than the candle on the cake had as his breath shot over it, and he shivered, Haruka’s face refusing to discard its bitter scowl, even as the apples of his cheeks were red like Christmas and his arms, holding Makoto prisoner against the couch, were quivering with embarrassment.

“Haruka…”

“I have something to tell you,” Haruka interrupted him hastily, sitting down over his lap and allowing Makoto to perch himself up on his elbows. “O-One last gift, I guess.”

Makoto awaited his continuation, which took a while and an encouraging nod from the brunet to arrive.

“I paid for the kick-starter.”

…

…

…

“I found a way to gather enough money to make it happen, without even touching your savings. So… You can use those to keep it running for a while, or whatever, until it manages without money coming from our own pockets. I’m not sure how it works…” Haruka reached out a hand, absent-mindedly trailing a fingertip down the slope between Makoto’s pectorals and over the valleys of his abdominals. “But they said it was enough to let it stay, and renovate the parts that had already been taken down. Earlier today I spoke to the—”

It was now Haruka’s time to be interrupted, as Makoto sat up straight, the former still in his lap, and embraced him tightly around the middle. Sighing heavily against Haruka, the latter could feel his boyfriend’s breath hit the skin of his abdomen hotly even through the thickness of his sweater.

“Haruka…” the brunet repeated weakly, and Haruka could effortlessly deduct by the waver of his voice that there were tears on the way.

With the corners of his mouth lifted tenderly, Haruka combed his fingers through Makoto’s hair and held him close. His chest felt fuller than ever before; his skin tickled with more devotion than ever before, and despite noting internally that the open fire needed more wood lest it would fall asleep within mere minutes, Haruka simply rested his head on top of his boyfriend’s, whispering, “Happy birthday, Makoto.”

 

* * *

 

 

_I wish to always be with you like this. Thank you. I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday to the loveliest, most brilliant chocolate-loving, cat-attracting angel in the world (even though im pretty sure it's already over in japan oop)
> 
> only about 2/3 of the fic is beta'd atm so please dont come at me with torches and weapons for any mistakes  
> and thanks to shinx for beta reading most of it!! u my rock


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